


Amy's Time

by backintimeforstuff



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Eleventh Doctor & Amy Pond Friendship, F/M, Fluff, Season/Series 05, amy being chaotic as usual, general drabble, i'm still pretending rory doesn't exist, pretty sure eleven couldn't be more in love with her if he tried
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:27:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26844364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/backintimeforstuff/pseuds/backintimeforstuff
Summary: "Amy Pond is, without a doubt, the biggest handful he's ever had to hold. Tonight, he's not exactly minding."
Relationships: Eleventh Doctor/Amy Pond
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	Amy's Time

Amy Pond is, without a doubt, the biggest handful he’s ever had to hold. 

He doesn’t think he’s ever met anyone with such a sense of insanity before, or indeed, anyone quite so alarming. She’s only interested in doing the most chaotic things, turning up to the bleakest of situations and never settling for anything less. Be it friend or foe, she always has something to say, and it makes him smile because he knows that even at the end of the universe, she’ll be the one to get the last word in before the lights go out.

In any case, it’s not unusual for him to shout back at her; randomly, when she’s really getting on his nerves. In the labyrinth of TARDIS corridors, it’s surname terms only and nothing else. If he wants to go and see a planet, if he wants her to choose said planet, if she’s taking too long finding appropriate clothes or the specific colour of her nail vanish; if she’s being too quiet or not quiet enough – 

“ _Pond!_ ”

It’s a good word. It’s a great name. He finds it’s very fairy-tale. 

Sometimes he thinks he’s got his head around her, around her impossible unpredictably, and then she’ll do something even more impulsive than the last. 

Her constant irritability keeps him in check more than anything, because she can find something to complain about by simply stepping a foot into the control room. As if he’s someone else altogether, she’ll happily complain at him about his own faults, about his fashion sense and his dealings with the stars themselves. 

The moment he hears her clatter down the corridor, he’s preparing for the onslaught, buttoning up his jacket to sway wondering hands and a wicked smile. 

“Morning, mister!”, she’ll declare, every single sunrise, with a sloppy smile and the brightest eyes. At that point, he’s hardly going to deny her, giving in to satisfied smirking and aimless fiddling. Fingernails pick at the ribbon and there’s nothing he can do about it – so besotted he is with her tendency to drive him up the wall. Twisting his bow tie around her fingertips, she’ll wrestle with it in her latest attempt to prize it off him, hands lost somewhere about his neck. Hatred of his clothing aside, if she’s doing this just to get to him, it seems to be working. 

Having pinned her up against to one of the console chairs just to force her off him, Amy will laugh, properly, for the first time that day. Tangled ginger hair inches from the glass floor, she’s pink from irritated exuberance. 

“God just _take it off!_ ”

The Doctor grins. “Never.” 

He's found their mornings can be host to a lot of playful antics. If she’s not wrestling with his shirt collar, she’s criticizing his general capacity as destination-finder, slinging an arm around his shoulder before telling him to get on with it.

“Found us a planet yet?” She’ll ask, almost flippantly, on her way down the staircase. She’s dying to know, he can tell that a mile off, just by the way she leans up against the railing, or pushes past him to get the first look out of the TARDIS door. 

He can’t quite stop himself from being vaguely offended by that question, by the sheer audacity of it, because whether he’s landed anywhere or not seems to make no difference. If he has, she’ll have something to say about it, and if he hasn’t, well, she’ll just end up belittling him to the ends of the Earth. 

Cackling at his apparent incapability, she’s inches away.

“Come on Gandalf, you’re getting slow.” 

Out on escapades, she seems to be just as irritated with him as she is during their mornings in the TARDIS – always finding something to ridicule or pick fun at. 

Sometimes, even if he’s managed to save the world by the skin of his teeth, she just looks at him. It’s not enough that he’s stopped the demise of a distant planet, stood defiantly in the jaws of the disaster; for she’ll still catch his eye with a sense of besotted contempt. 

“You’re a bloody idiot, you know that?” 

It stops at nothing to make him laugh. Even if he’s still got his hackles up, rage coursing through his veins, he’ll manage a shrug, and concede with an air of flattery. He supposes in the end he’s just used to giving in to her.

She could do anything and he’d just stand there, affronted in disbelief. Confronting villains without a care in the world, he’s almost longing to take her by the hand and tell her – _God, look at all the mess you’ve made._

He knows there’s no point to it.

He knows she’d only agree.

\---

Of course, when he’s not shouting at her, wrestling with her, or doing other things – he’s trying to make her laugh. 

It may be a polar opposite to his other endeavours, but he loves it just the same, weaving it into one of his favourite pastimes. After all, she’s got a gorgeous laugh, she really has – it’s loud and downright erratic, and he lives to let it show. Grinning at every sky she comes across, it’s all front teeth and smiles, endless giggling and wicked smirks. He’s convinced she could light up the entire universe with one look alone. 

Wherever they end up, be it in the distant future or at the beginning of time itself – 

“Well this is where I live.”

And Amy collapses into laugher.

Whoever they meet, the Doctor simply has to introduce them to the TARDIS, and fair to him, he thinks, a space time machine is impressive - but only from the inside. 

For even the most primitive of villagers in the Middle Ages will raise eyebrows at a man claiming possession to what is essentially a bright blue shed; all crooked and wooden and stuck out in the countryside like a sore thumb. It doesn’t help that he claims to live there either, it just makes him sound like the world’s most unimpressive hermit. 

He gets off on her look of horror - he has to admit. He gets off on the way she punches him in the arm afterwards, leaning on his shoulder with ginger hair splaying everywhere. If she’s about to tell him he’s an idiot then she’s done it a thousand times – leaning out into the depths of the universe and calling him out on his stupidity. 

One day after endless days, when they’re running away from God knows what, on a planet so far out into the universe that it seems to be raining honey, Amy’s laughing again. God, she’s got tears in her eyes, he can see it even as they slip their way back to the safety of the TARDIS. They may be on the brink of death, but the situation is so far beyond ridiculous, that she’s finding it hilarious, the sheer thrill of it all. 

There’s nothing to save here per se, it’s not a case of protecting the innocent from a chaotic invasion – as far as the villagers are concerned, they are the chaotic invasion, with their inexplicable blue box and mannerisms from so far beyond the distant stars. 

Amy’s legs are longer than his are, and she makes it back to the Tardis first, shoving open the door and, despite everything, chivalrously holding it open for him with a smile as he dives past her. 

“They nearly had you there, mister.” She smirks at him before winking back through the door at gathering troops, slamming it shut at the last moment.

He’s almost offended, catching his breath with a raised eyebrow. “Not a chance. Outrun anyone, me.”

She scoffs at his heavy breathing, and makes her way past him as the noise grows louder outside. Halfway up the stairs out of the control room, running a hand through her sticky, tangled, honey-coated hair, she turns back to him just as he’s started tapping into keyboards.

“Try not to land on anymore crazy planets before I’m out the shower yeah?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Pond.”

It’s one of those days when she’s about to counter anyone; stick her head back out the door and reason undefended with the military. She’ll be all wicked smiles and dangerous eyes, ready to thwart anyone into oblivion should they think to match her. Of course, it’s at those times when he drags her away by the waist, pulling her into shielded corners or back alleys at the end of the universe. 

“I would quite like you to _live_ , Amelia – can you do that for me, just _once?_ ” 

The heat’s rising and they both know it – there’s no way out now, nothing that can save them for any of this. The Doctor’s convinced that his grip on her hand might be the last thing he feels – the last thing anyone feels; in this universe at least – as the skies darken and the stars begin to go out. 

But Amy always whispers back, as if there isn’t a fleet of Daleks out there, slaughtering millions, staining the sky dark red with the rages of vengeance. 

“You think they’ve got any ground on us?” She blows the air of her nose with distain. “I thought you trusted me.”

And with that, she’s off – sauntering back out into the hellfire – for he can do nothing to stop her. The chaos she causes is done with brilliance; with such calculated malice and a bravery to exert even the Gods themselves. Perhaps if he wasn’t so entirely taken with everything that comes out of her mouth, he might be able to reason with her, just once. 

He knows he’d be lying of course, if he told her - if the sky caved in and he disagreed – he _does_ trust her, of course he does. With everything he has. With everything _anyone_ has. Everything entirely material, or something stupid, like _time itself_ , he’d give it all to her in a heartbeat’s worth of deliberation, if that. When the fire in her eyes burns brighter than the sun, when she confronts injustices and warzones with that look on her face, God, he’s convinced the universe was meant to shatter just so she could save it. _Dearest Amelia Pond_ , he might write to her, in a sonnet at the end of days, _you are the daylight; you are the night –_

Coming from someone so far removed from time itself, he supposes she’d only laugh at that. 

Red hair clashing with the sky outside, she’d climb the stairs to the tallest tower, spit speeches at villains and leave enough time to get everyone else out. 

He has no idea what he’d do without her.

\---

“Crash and burn, no doubt.” Amy says, when he eventually brings it up.

She’s smiling that warm smile over a mug of hot chocolate, sitting curled up in the depths of the TARDIS library. Wooden panels and flickering fires, it’s nearly midnight. 

In these hours before dawn, she’s just as quick witted as she always is; just as clever and willing to let the universe descend into chaos. No matter the time of day, she does what she wants and to hell with the consequences. Far flung future or distant past, it doesn’t matter what’s ahead of them, what challenge or disaster might make itself known. She grins in the face of decadence and gets on with whatever she came for. 

Bloody minded, contradictory, completely unpredictable -

“Oh, be quiet, you love it.” Amy smirks at him from across the room, and he supposes he has to agree with her. 

She might be a handful at the best of times, but she’s downright undeniable, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. Her sense of universal rightness - it’s why she’s sitting here at all. Choosing to do good things, right things - he takes those kinds of people with him, showing them the stars like there’s nothing left to lose. He remembers the first time, pointing them out to her, mapping out the constellations as the night closed in.

“Want to pick out next trip?” The Doctor says, absentmindedly, as if he’s offering the universe to her all over again. Knowing her, she’ll pick something daring, some outrage to fix, or a battle at the end of the world. 

Halfway to threatening nightmares, one-upping a military, she’ll stop in the moment just to fall in love; trailing through fields of sunflowers and sipping hot chocolate by the fire.

Wrestling with bow ties and laughter lines, she’ll have one hand on the lapel of his jacket and the other on a bomb switch – ready to detonate with a smile.

Metres away, the Doctor eyes her.

_You are the starlight; you are the night –_

He should probably get back to that sonnet. 

\--- 

Stuck out on an asteroid against the burning sun, he watches Amy stride around clawing nails into fists and shouting at anyone who will listen. Stone walls and triple deadlocks hold fast against Scottish torment, and he’s this close to taking her by the shoulder and reasoning with her. Not that she’ll ever let him. 

Locked up as they are, he’s had enough time to pen a thousand love songs, watching as auburn hair clashes with the light of a dying star.

They’re only here because she likes kissing people.

Chaotic as ever, she’d run hands over shoulders and planted kisses on lips just to get her way, seducing people for the hell of it. Asking for a favour is one thing, but the other is far sticker, far more human, and actually, very _Amy Pond_ , if he’s at all thinking about it. Running fingers through his quiff, the Doctor wonders how many laws she’s broken, how many cultural taboos now lay in tatters. 

If she wasn’t so good at plastering her mouth on everything that moves, perhaps they might have seen the sunset without steel bars blocking the view.

“Y’know if you-”

“Oh, be quiet.” Amy cuts him off before he even gets anywhere. “I know what you’re going to say, and I’m not listening.”

“You didn’t have to snog him!” The Doctor winces slightly, shifting to a less-uncomfortable position on the floor. “If you’d just let me-”

“Are you kidding?” Amy stares in disbelief. “How else was he going to do what we wanted?”

“We… wanted to get locked up in here?” The Doctor raises an eyebrow in the second of silence, casting a wary eye about the room. Amy draws a sharp breath. 

“Didn’t I tell you to shut up?”

His silence only lets her speak. 

Almost as if the Gods themselves might disapprove, Amy’s off again, striding around the room. 

“God, think of all the things I could do if you weren’t around to stop me.”

“I’m sorry?” The Doctor stares at her. They’ve got an entire night of captivity ahead of them, and God knows, maybe she’ll come over here and put him out of his misery. 

“I think you drag me down.” Amy says, strangely matter-of-factly. He has to laugh. 

“Oh, do you now?” He reminds her casually of the time machine out on the forecourt, parked where they left it, and the key hanging around his neck. It doesn’t seem to phase her.

“Come to think of it,” Amy says, with a wicked smile growing on her lips, “I don’t know why I put up with you.”

It’s a compliment disguised as an insult, wrapped up in a layer of sarcasm. As things go, it’s very _her_. The Doctor grins.

“I wasn’t aware you had a choice.” 

\---

Eventually though, when they’ve spent the night together in the rising sun, the door opens. They’re let off on eternal banishment, and with one quick wink from the girl who started it all, they’re off. 

“So – snogging the prison guard-” The Doctor says, walking stiffly up the steps to the TARDIS console, “remind me again how that plan worked, would you?”

Amy just tuts at him. He’s discarded his jacket to aid aching shoulders, and can’t help but notice she’s feeling just as sore.

“It gave us some quality alone time?”

This, at least, makes him stop still.

Closing the gap between them, Amy’s got fingers on bow ties again, wresting with his shirt collar. Pushing the Doctor down onto one of the console chairs, she’s straddling thighs with miniskirts and he’s this close to giving in.

Breathlessly, with half his fringe falling into his face, he whispers the only thing he can think of.

_You are the starlight; you are the night –_

“…I don’t know why I put up with you.” 

Amy grins. 

“I wasn’t aware you had a choice.” 

She is, without a doubt, the biggest handful he’s ever had to hold.

Tonight, he’s not exactly minding.


End file.
